On the Brink
by ewells4
Summary: Takes place at the beginning of Episode 1.01 (a prequel, of sorts)


**This story goes all the way back to the beginning (as in the beginning of the show—not the season). I guess it could be considered sort of a prequel. Although it has nothing to do with the current season, I was actually motivated to post this because I enjoyed 6.10 so much. After a season of episodes that left me feeling less than enthusiastic, 6.10 reminded me why I enjoy watching this show. Without posting any spoilers, I'll just generally say that I thought the dialogue and character interactions were great. I also appreciated that certain characters were actually stringing together full sentences again instead of leaving us hanging with a few cryptic, monosyllabic responses. So here I am posting a new story because generally, my process works something like this: See it, like it, write about it. As always, thanks for reading!  
**

* * *

The leaves fluttered and shimmied, clinging to their branches as a cool evening breeze followed Andy down the sidewalk. Sunset had long ago shrugged its shoulders and given in to twilight, and now, the only light was that being cast by the street lamps buzzing and flickering overhead. Andy hugged herself for warmth but fought the urge to lengthen her stride. As excited as she was, and as nervous as she was becoming, she wasn't quite ready to rush tomorrow. Tonight carried the promise of new experiences and the chance to make a difference in the world. Tomorrow, she'd be confronted with reality. The real work would begin, and it wasn't going to be easy. From the moment she put on the uniform, Andy knew she'd be struggling beneath the weight of her father's mantle. There would undoubtedly be questions and more than a few stares, and that alone, made her want to linger in the gap between tonight and tomorrow for as long as she could.

Glancing down at the sidewalk, Andy smiled faintly to herself. The night had been a good one. She'd experienced the sort of camaraderie that comes from being part of a force larger than oneself, and for a girl accustomed to a small family of two, there was quite a bit of comfort in that. She hadn't even minded too much when Gail got out of her cuffs first. Sure, it bothered Andy, but it was hardly worth being annoyed. Gail was just . . . Gail. It was evident to Andy, and probably everyone else, as well, that Gail was shouldering the weight of a legacy, too. The only difference was that unlike Andy, who had to live down the legacy her father had left for her, Gail had to live up to hers.

As she approached her building, Andy detected movement and narrowed her eyes in the dim light. Slowly processing the scene in front of her, she sighed and pressed forward. Hovering above the neighbor's trash can, a stooped figure swathed in a long trench coat was muttering something unintelligible. Nearby, a small grocery cart had been left waiting. Stopping beside it, Andy smiled patiently. "Hi, Helen."

A greying head of hair smoothed into a tight bun bobbed subtly as the woman turned her head to the side and eyed Andy. When recognition lit up her face, she grinned sheepishly and stood up to her full height of five feet. With a fondness born from many such sidewalk encounters, the woman shook her head back and forth slowly and chuckled. "Andy McNally. It's been a while . . . . Where have you been?"

"I've been around," Andy laughed. "I've just had a lot going on. My new job starts tomorrow, and the training's been kind of intense."

"Figured you'd been busy with that young man of yours."

Andy rolled her eyes. "We broke up."

"Good," Helen sniffed. "He never deserved you. Wasn't even close to being good enough."

"Come on. He wasn't that bad."

"He walked with his hands in his pockets," Helen said resolutely, as if that alone should explain her objections to the man.

"Okay. I'll bite. Why does that matter?"

"It means he was deceitful," Helen supplied. "And while we're on the subject, he was also insincere."

"How do you know _that_?" Andy asked. It was true enough, but she was surprised that Helen—a woman who had never even had a conversation with Derek—would know that about him.

"You're a smart one. I'm sure you can figure it out."

"His smiles never reached his eyes," Andy answered quietly, recalling one of the last images she had of Derek. He was standing in her kitchen explaining that he couldn't stay the night because he had an early band practice the next day. "It always bothered me about him."

"Then why were you with him?"

"Because he was my type," Andy responded simply. "And it just happened." There had been a lot of Dereks in Andy's life, and they were always the same—edgy, mysterious and exciting. They gave little and expected even less in return, which was, fortunately for Andy, exactly what she was able to give them.

"Find a new type," Helen said brusquely. She leaned over her cart to inspect the contents, undoubtedly determining whether everything was in its proper place.

Looking down at her watch, Andy asked, "Shouldn't you be getting inside for the night?"

"Yeah. I'm on my way over there now."

"Helen, let me call you a cab. It's getting late."

Helen shook off Andy's suggestion. "Nah. I'll walk. Who knows what I might find along the way. Tomorrow's trash day," she said, pointing at the neighbor's trash barrel. "Just pulled a designer handbag out of that one."

"Promise me you'll be careful," Andy said as Helen adjusted her cart, preparing to move on. "And take this," she insisted, reaching forward and pressing several small bills into the woman's hands.

"You're a nice girl, Andy McNally." Turning slowly, she narrowed her eyes and added, "And don't you give that boy a second thought because you're better off without him."

Andy almost admitted that she already knew that, but instead she just nodded at Helen.

"You know he had a wandering eye, don't you?" Helen continued.

"You could tell that from the way he walks?"

Helen grunted, waving away the suggestion. "Saw him coming out of that bar downtown where his band plays. Had his arm around another woman. Thought it might be a sister, but I had my doubts . . . ."

Andy smiled weakly. "Yeah, he has a lot of sisters. More than a few female cousins, too."

"Better off without him," Helen repeated. Moving down the sidewalk, she increased the distance between them.

"Thanks, Helen. Take care of yourself," Andy called after the woman. The occasional thump or squeak from Helen's cart was the only response she heard.

As Andy walked up the front steps to her building, she pulled out her phone and dialed the number for the local homeless shelter. "Dan," she said immediately when a familiar male voice answered. "Helen's heading your way. Can you save her a bed for the night?"

* * *

"Are you sure it's all in here?" Sam asked skeptically. Patting down the brown paper bag, he raised a dubious eyebrow.

Li Cheung waved away Sam's question with the gnarled fingers of a hand that had spent upwards of seven decades stir-frying some of the best Lo Mein in the city. "Yeah, yeah. I just pack really well. It's all there. Even the soup."

"Best Sweet and Sour soup I've ever eaten, man."

"Let me ask you something, Sammy," Cheung said.

Sam froze, waiting for what was coming next. Questions weren't good. Questions required answers, and answers opened the door for him to slip up and blow his cover. "Yeah?" he asked warily.

"You come in here at least once a week, right?"

"Yep," Sam confirmed. "The only thing that's keeping me away from this place is a locked door."

"So what's your problem?" Cheung demanded suddenly, earning an expression of wide-eyed confusion from Sam.

"What's my problem?" Sam echoed.

"Every time you come in here, you order only enough food for one."

"That's because I'm _one_ person," Sam responded slowly. As he surveyed the tiny man on the other side of the counter, he figured something was probably being lost in the translation. "And to be honest, your portions are on the generous size. I can't imagine ordering extra food."

In a show of impatience, Cheung cocked his head and drummed his fingers on the counter top. "That's not what I mean. I'm asking why you never bring in any special lady with you?"

"Are you kidding me?" Sam fired back automatically. "Have you tasted your Pork Lo Mein lately? There's no way I'm sharing what's in this bag with someone else."

Cheung leaned across the counter and lowered his voice, beckoning Sam forward with one bony finger. "You find nice girl. Settle down. Bring her here. I give you double portion at no extra charge."

Picking up his bag of food, Sam laughed. "Now that's an offer I might have to take you up on."

"Think about it," Cheung insisted as Sam backed toward the door. "And remember . . . the man who eats alone dies alone."

Sam grimaced. "Chinese takeout with a side of brutal honesty. Interesting approach to running a business . . . ." Nodding, he said, "I appreciate the concern, but I think I'll be okay."

"Not a problem. See you next week," Cheung responded. Seemingly satisfied with himself, he waved at Sam and ambled back toward his kitchen.

"Yeah. See you then." Sam let the glass door slam shut behind him, realizing that as much as he enjoyed his weekly visits to Li Cheung's restaurant, they'd be coming to an end pretty soon. If fortune smiled on him—and Sam felt pretty confident that it would—he'd be slapping the cuffs on Anton Hill within two weeks. And that, of course, meant that Sammy Amaro would cease to exist.

* * *

Satisfied that Helen would have a place to sleep that night, Andy ended her call to the shelter and mounted an exhaustive search for her house keys. She knew they were somewhere in her backpack. As such, she rifled through the bag with the frustrated confidence of a person who knew she'd eventually find what she needed. When she finally did locate the keys in the toe of one of her running shoes, she stabbed them proudly into the lock with a triumphant flush staining her cheeks.

"Lost your keys again?" a familiar voice asked from behind.

Zipping up her backpack, Andy laughed dryly and nudged open the door to her apartment. "Not _lost_. Just misplaced," she insisted.

"If you put them in the front pocket of your bag you'd always know where they were."

Andy smiled over her shoulder at her neighbor Dean. As he leaned against the wall beside her door, she briefly wondered if he'd been waiting for her to come home.

Tall and lanky with dusty blond hair that could use a trim, Dean regarded Andy with an affectionate smile—a little _too_ affectionate, in fact, for Andy's liking. "Do you want to come down to my place for a drink?" he asked in a tone that was clearly aiming for casual and spontaneous but unfortunately landed somewhere in the realm of jittery and over-rehearsed.

Hoping to let him down easily, she was apologetic as she said, "I'm actually kind of tired. Maybe some other time?"

"Sure. Sure," he responded hastily, pushing himself off of the wall in an instant. "I know you've got a lot going on with your new job. If you change your mind, though, there's a bottle of that wine you like chilling in my refrigerator."

"How are things going with Amelia?" Andy asked pointedly.

Dean shrugged. "Oh, you know . . . we've been out a few times. She's great and all, but, well . . . hypothetically, if someone else were interested . . . ."

"She likes you a lot," Andy reminded him.

"I know she does," he sighed. "I guess I should call her . . . see if she wants to go out again. Unless maybe you think I shouldn't?" He tilted his head, looking at her expectantly.

"Call her," Andy said firmly, tossing in a smile to soften the blow.

"Sure. Okay. If you think I should."

"I do. You should be with someone who appreciates you," she explained, hoping he understood her meaning. When he locked eyes with her and still seemed uncertain, she added, "And by that, I mean that she appreciates you as _more_ than a friend." _There you go_ , Andy thought. _Could I be any clearer than that?_ She could only hope he'd take her advice and call Amelia for another date.

Walking back toward his apartment, Dean nodded slowly in understanding. Appearing mildly deflated, he said, "Have a good night, Andy. Good luck tomorrow."

"Thanks, Dean. Have a good night."

Inside her apartment with the door closed, Andy sank down onto the couch, feeling relieved and annoyed all at once. Why couldn't she be interested in Dean? The attraction was there on his end. Of that much she was certain. The problem was that as much as she wanted to reciprocate, she just didn't feel _that_ way about him. Maybe Dean was too eager. Maybe he was too available. Or maybe the fault was hers, Andy concluded. Having encountered a few other Deans in her lifetime, Andy had developed a tendency to tip-toe around them, each time desperately hoping they'd stick to the "friend zone." They simply weren't her type. Andy's preference had always been the hot, fast attraction that came along with dating men like Derek. Unfortunately, as she well knew, hot and fast had a tendency to fizzle out just as quickly as it began, and more often than not, men like Derek brought her more heartache than happiness.

Knowing, then, what she did about the Dereks of the world, why couldn't she date someone like Dean? Dean was the kind of guy fathers trusted with their daughters. He was the kind of guy mothers adored. Dads wanted him to pull up a lawn chair and crack open a beer with them, and Moms wondered why their own sons couldn't be more like him. Of course, when it came to Andy's own family, her father would never limit himself to just one beer. He'd have six. And he wouldn't be sitting in the lawn chair so much as passed out on the ground beside it. As for her mother . . . well, Andy didn't have one of those. So even if she were attracted to a Dean instead of a Derek, she reasoned that a guy like Dean would be wasted on her. He might even be disappointed to learn the truth about her background after getting to know her better. More importantly, though, Andy had always known that a guy like Dean would require far more than she could give and as such, she'd always thought it best to avoid the type altogether.

* * *

When his phone began ringing, Sam was still a block away from his cover apartment. Grumbling to himself, he repositioned the bag containing his dinner and glanced at the phone, realizing it could only be one of a few people and that it was most likely important.

"Tell me you've got it," he said abruptly as soon as he answered. With each syllable that passed across his lips, he lowered his voice. Normally, he would've deferred the call until he could be assured that no one would overhear, but with this particular informant, he couldn't run the risk that she might hang up and never call back. From the beginning, her cooperation with him had been reluctant, at best. To Sam, it was understandable, given the precarious nature of her situation, but it certainly didn't make his job any easier.

"I need more time," Emily countered.

"You said you'd have it for me by tomorrow," Sam reminded her in an even tone. He didn't want to push her too hard, but he needed to keep things moving.

"I know. It's just taking longer than I thought it would, and believe me, this stuff I'm pulling together . . . . Sammy, you're going to want all of it. What I've got now is good, but what I'll have in a couple of days will make your case airtight."

"I believe you," he insisted, "but I need to see what you've got. _Soon_."

Several seconds dragged by before he heard her voice again. "You haven't forgotten what you promised me, have you?"

Sam almost laughed. No one could ever say that Emily Starling wasn't tenacious. It had taken Sam months to convince her to cooperate with him in bringing down Anton Hill, and even then, it was only with a very specific understanding of what she would receive in return for her cooperation. Five thousand dollars in cash—not a penny less—and she wanted to relocate out west. The girl definitely knew how to make the most of an opportunity when it landed in her lap.

"You know me. A deal's a deal," Sam assured her smoothly. "Get me what I need, and I'll make sure you're taken care of."

"Two more days," she repeated stubbornly. "Then you'll have it."

"Okay," he said, resigning himself to the delay. "Just make sure you get in touch with me if you run into any trouble."

"I will."

"Emily, I mean that," he added with more authority. "Anton isn't someone you mess around with." Sam knew he was only reaffirming what she already knew, but it never hurt to issue an additional reminder.

"Yeah. Sure. I get it, Sammy. I know what I'm doing. Stop worrying."

"I'll stop worrying when we have you in a safe place and your boss is locked up."

"Me, too," she agreed. "I'll be in touch soon."

Sam ended the call with a heavy sigh. If Emily slipped up, he didn't even want to think about what Hill's men would do to her. At best, she'd be black and blue from head-to-toe and at worst, some fisherman would find her washed up on the shore of a muddy pond outside the city.

Shaking his head in mild frustration, Sam reminded himself that Emily was only asking for two more days. The thing was, after eight months, he was ready to put this case to bed. It was time to touch down in the real world, check in with a few friends and pick up a new assignment. Waiting for Emily wasn't ideal—especially if two days turned into a week or more—but if it helped make his case, he knew he had no choice but to wait.

* * *

Andy stifled a yawn, immediately planning out the next five minutes of her night. Pajamas. Bathroom. Bed. She was exhausted, and tomorrow was a big day—probably one of the most important days of her life.

Tossing her bag on the table, she glanced down and frowned. Beside it, a small mound of Derek's stuff was still taking up space on her table—and in her life. Having organized it into a pile almost a week ago, Andy had then left him a message asking if he wanted to come by and pick it up. He'd never called back. With one hand, Andy rifled through the small stack. Two CDs, a couple of guitar picks, a faded black fedora and an old copy of Rolling Stone. She assumed there was a similar collection of her belongings at his apartment—that is, if he'd even bothered to gather it all together. More than likely, some other woman was already helping herself to the bottle of nail polish Andy was pretty sure she left in his bathroom. It bothered Andy a little bit to think that she could be replaced so easily, but the pangs were only slight. As usual, she had managed to steer clear of any deep emotional connection and having invested very little, she felt few qualms about letting go.

Now, as she examined the physical evidence that remained of her relationship with Derek, Andy realized that none of what she saw on the table was overly personal. As she _really_ looked at what was there, she also saw that none of it was irreplaceable. Without further thought, she picked up the entire pile and carried it over to the kitchenette. Dropping it into the trash can, she made a show of dusting off her hands. Just like that, Derek was removed from her life. As it turned out, it hadn't been difficult at all, given that he'd barely left a mark in the first place.

Feeling lighter, Andy went about the business of getting ready for bed and finally, climbed beneath the covers. As she sank down onto the mattress, she gave some consideration to the notion that perhaps when it came to relationships, it was time for a change. Impulsive decisions led to relationships like the one she'd had with Derek, and clearly, that wasn't working for her. Maybe Helen was right. Maybe she needed a new type. Perhaps the next "Derek" should be a "Dean" instead.

"New job. New leaf. New type," Andy mumbled to herself, fluffing the sheet around her and settling in for the night. And if a voice deep inside of her head was trying to point out that perhaps, she shouldn't be looking for a particular type so much as a person—the _right_ person—she simply wasn't ready to listen to it yet.

* * *

Beneath Sam's feet, the stairs to his dingy, cover apartment were scarred and pitted from years of overuse and neglect. He barely jiggled his key in the lock and the door swung open, causing him to wonder once again why he even bothered to lock it at all. Unless you considered the money stashed inside of the mattress, there certainly wasn't anything worth stealing. The place was a dump.

Dropping the Chinese food onto the bed, he pressed Speed Dial 3 on his phone and waited for his handler to answer. Two rings in, and Sam heard a familiar, "Yeah?" on the other end of the line. It was just a simple, straightforward greeting offering nothing substantive until something was offered in return. That's the way it was done, and Sam appreciated the precautions, because if his phone fell into the wrong hands and his handler offered too much information, his cover could easily be blown.

"Denton, it's me," Sam confirmed.

"What happened to you, Sammy? You were supposed to check in this morning. I had to send over a guy to make sure you were okay," Cal Denton grumbled. From the smoker's cough to the deep gravelly undertones in his voice, Sam's handler sounded every bit as hardened as he was. Fortunately, he also knew what it took to keep his operatives alive, and Sam appreciated that.

"I got called in to work a shift at the last minute," Sam said, knowing it was a poor excuse and that at the very least, he should've checked in as soon as he got out of work. "Won't happen again."

"Good. 'Cause I don't want to find you floating in banana peels in some back alley dumpster, Swarek."

"Like I said, it won't happen again," he assured Cal. Missing a scheduled check-in was a rookie mistake, and Sam was no rookie. He was, however, burning out when it came to his current assignment. One symptom of that was a growing complacency that could ultimately compromise his cover if left unchecked. It was just one more reason to tidy up and move on to the next op.

"Everything going okay with the dealers you're working?" Cal asked.

"Yeah. It's fine. I'm still waiting for some information to come in from my main informant, though."

"What's taking so long?"

"She just needs more time. Nothing to worry about. Says she'll have what we need in a couple of days."

"You don't think Hill knows she's working with the cops, do you?"

"Nah," Sam scoffed. "She's smart. Knows how to stay out of trouble."

"You've got to keep her moving," Cal reminded Sam. "If we're going to close this thing out in two weeks, we need her intel."

"I know. I'm on it. I'm ready to shut this one down as much as you are."

"I know you are. Eight months is a long time," Cal agreed. "So how's everything else going?"

"Pretty much the same. I'm ready to come out, if that's what you're asking. I'll probably check in with Pedro tomorrow—pick up some product, pump him for information, the usual . . . . The guy's like a sieve, so hopefully I'll be able to get him talking and he'll give us something we can use."

"Wouldn't hurt to know more about what Hill's got going on for the next couple of weeks," Cal admitted, and Sam heard a low rumble that he assumed was a cough. "The guy's like a snake. Keeping track of him ain't easy."

"That's the way he likes it."

"So you got any plans for when you get home?" Cal asked.

Sam considered telling his handler that he wasn't actually going _home_ so much as going _back_. Instead, he chuckled and said, "Sure. I've got big plans for a rib-eye and a bottle of wine that doesn't taste like rubbing alcohol."

"What about that nurse you were seeing before you went under?"

"I doubt she stuck around," Sam said with a shrug. "And it wasn't serious anyway."

"Doesn't matter. If not her, you'll find someone else. Take it from a man who's been there. A guy like you, in his prime . . . as soon as word gets around that you're coming off of a successful undercover op, you'll be like a rock star. You'll have 'em lined up around the bar waiting to talk to you."

"Is that right?"

"It's the Indiana Jones Effect. They can smell the danger on you. Makes 'em want to come in for a closer look."

"Is that how it was for you?" Sam asked curiously, thinking that any attention he'd ever garnered after a successful bust had always felt like more of a drain than anything else. After the last one, he'd gone back to his place and slept for four days straight before he even considered heading over to the Penny for a beer.

"How do you think I met Wives Number 2 and 5?"

Sam laughed. "Denton, you're a piece of work."

"Maybe so, but I've always been able to appreciate good fortune when it smacks me across the face."

"Well, good fortune or not, I'm pretty sure I won't be meeting any future spouses on a bar stool at the Penny."

"Then maybe it won't happen at the Penny," Cal conceded, "but let me tell you, man, if she's out there, she'll find you. It's happened to me five times, so I know."

"If marriage is so great, why do you keep getting divorced?"

"Spend an afternoon with my wives, and they'll be more than happy to fill you in. The thing is . . . when things are going well, having a partner isn't such a bad thing. It's kind of nice having someone to warm the other side of the bed at night and maybe even smile at you across the dinner table on occasion. That is, when she's not rolling her eyes about some dirty joke you just told."

"Huh," Sam said absently, eyeing the bag of Chinese food on his bed. "I don't see myself ever getting married."

"That's what I said before I met Wife Number 1. It happens. You'll see . . . ."

"Yeah. I doubt it. Look, I've gotta get going. Dinner's getting cold. I'll call you tomorrow after I see Pedro."

"Don't forget this time."

"I didn't forget," Sam groaned, flexing his jaw in irritation. "It was work. I couldn't cut out during shift without drawing attention to myself."

"Relax, Swarek. I'm just yanking your chain. Don't take everything so seriously." Cal chuckled briefly before dissolving into a raspy string of hacks and wheezes.

"And maybe you should try and see a doctor about that cough," Sam returned.

"Nah. You start letting doctors put their hands on you, and the next thing you know, they're tinkering with everything on your body and it all starts to unravel."

"Suit yourself," Sam said. Ending the call, he ripped open the staples on his bag of food.

"Some people aren't cut out for marriage," he muttered to himself. Sam had known he was one of those people since he was old enough to think about such things. Marriage would require a deeper connection that he could never give a woman. Even if someone cared enough about him to know his darkest secrets and not run the other way, there was another obvious consideration. Marriage led to kids, and Sam knew he could never go down that road. His own father had been a train wreck, and that meant Sam was predisposed to be a train wreck, as well. Nature or nurture—whichever way he looked at it, he was either hard-wired to be a lousy dad or he had probably learned it by example. So when it came to his life, Sam had reached one very solid conclusion. Nobody was coming along for the ride. He was doing it alone.

As he unloaded the bag of food onto his bed, Sam reached all the way to the bottom and pulled out the fortune cookie. Seeing no reason to wait for dessert when it was right in front of him, he dropped the cookie onto the bedside table and crushed it with his fist. Tearing open the wrapper, he pulled out the small slip of white paper inside and said, "Okay, Cheung. Let's see what you've got."

Sam had never put much stock in fortune and destiny. He already knew what his future held. Still, after eight months in a seedy, little undercover apartment, a guy would do pretty much anything for some entertainment. Holding up the paper, he announced to the room at large:

 _Welcome the change coming into your life._

"'Change,' you are more than welcome to come into my life," he declared, tossing the paper onto the bed and picking up one of the takeout containers. "As long as you take down Anton Hill in the process."


End file.
